


Amicum Munera

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Amabilis Insania [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Acceptance, Canon Trans Character, Chance Meetings, Dialogue Heavy, Dork Inquisitor, Emotional, Family Reunions, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Friendship, Gen, Gift Giving, Heart-to-Heart, Help, Hope, Misgendering, Parenthood, Regret, Sick Character, Slavery, Terminal Illnesses, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yavanna Lavellan adores giving gifts to all her friends. It is high time, she thinks, to give a gift to her newest friend, Gereon Alexius, whom she continually tries to support as he grieves for his son. The plan is to cheer him up with a intricate new robe, like the garments he wore when he was still a proud Tevinter magister. Little does everyone know that the tailor that is to craft the said robe once crossed paths with Felix Alexius, who helped him get out of slavery and shared some thoughts on parenthood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story can be read either before or after Furor Brevis. 
> 
> The title translates as 'Gifts from a Friend', and is a nod to the title of the first story in my Alexius/Lavellan series.

This day has begun surprisingly well. First of all, he woke up just because... just because he woke up. Yes, as simple as that - no nausea, no pounding in his temples, no prolonged, pulsing ache in his libs, no crushing feeling making his chest cave in. He just opened his eyes and realized that he had had a good night's sleep and did not feel like lying around any longer. These days, it is quite a luxury, and Felix could not be more grateful.

He is still certain that sooner or later, the poison in his blood will claim him - that is simply the way things are. But even so, it feels good to spend his last few months with a clear head and in relative comfort. Most victims of the Blight have not dragged on as long as he did. Of course, it is highly likely that, some time in the near future, another crisis will hit, and he will, once again, lie glued to his bed, too weak from vomiting black blood to as much as breathe too deeply, and glare at the blurred, hazy world around him in silent scorn, angry at his father for being so stubborn and drawing out his suffering with life-sustaining spells and potions. But that day is yet to come. This morning, Felix feels almost well enough to forget about his illness - and thankful for every moment ahead of him.

Humming a barely audible but cheerful song, he flings his legs over the edge of his bed and smiles to himself, as the cold touch of the stone floor under his bare feet chases away the last inklings of sleepiness. Straightening himself up and standing without support is a bit of a challenge, but he pulls it off, swaying just a tiny bit. This makes his smile grow even broader. He is definitely going to enjoy himself today - he can feel it.

Seizing the moment when his healing magic improved Felix's condition and made him fit for travelling, his father moved them both from their country estate to Minrathous, where they settled in the Circle Tower, within close reach of the local mages' vast archives and alchemy laboratory. Felix has to wonder how many strings had to be pulled to coax the Circle into accepting a sickly patient that is not even a real mage - and who has the Blight (though he suspects that his father took care not to mention the latter). Hopefully, not too many: his father is so desperate to find a cure for him that he could very well get ensnared in some tangled web without even noticing it.

Ah, but those are concerns for some other time - right now, Felix just feels like observing the world around him, relishing the clarity of his own vision.

During family dinners, he has heard far too many times how sorely under-funded the Circle is; and surely enough, his quarters here are rather modest (especially compared to his old bedroom back home, which is spacious enough to play ball games in, and still dominated by that enormous toy castle that he and his father built when he was in his early teens). But today, he is ready to recite an exalted eulogy to express his love for the squares of pale sunlight on the recently scrubbed floor, and to the plain but sturdy furniture that he sees as he looks around the room.

His father is asleep in a chair by the door; Felix is not even sure if he has separate quarters. Judging from the things Felix has been able to notice and the conversations he has been able to overhear during his moments of consciousness, his father has not rested in a bed for days now, devoting all his time to either poring over books, mixing alchemical reagents, or keeping watch at his bedside. Now as well, the poor soul looks as if he collapsed from utter exhaustion. His eyebrows are still knitted into a frown, which has not been softened even by sleep; his eyelids are twitching, as is the corner of his mouth; and his hand is resting on the spine of a massive time of healing spells. As Felix approaches him, very slowly, putting a lot of effort into every step, he mutters something feverishly, but does not wake up. For a few moments, the patient watches his devoted healer, with his gaze filled with sincere sympathy; then, he comes closer to the sleeping man and cups his hand around his bony, hardened knuckles.

'I love you, Father,' he whispers, his voice tender and sorrowful. 'And I am so afraid of what you are doing to yourself'.

The only response he gets is a muffled groan that sounds a little like his name. Deciding not to disturb his father any further, Felix moves past him into the corridor, excitement slowly beginning to flood into his stiff, unwieldy body, when he realizes how far he can walk completely on his own.

Quite ironically, it is now, precisely at the time when Felix's father could not have cared less about his pet project, that they have finally begun to do some semblance of renovation in the tower. Felix can see scaffolding at the opposite end of the passage, and a group of labourers coming and going, tools in hand. The mages could probably have managed the repairs themselves, moving the materials around with a few well-placed spells, like the ones Father was researching when he was still... himself. But knowing this lot, they must be too busy plotting political intrigue (maybe even preparing blood rituals to gain more power and best a rival) to get their hands dirty over something as vulgar as a leaky roof. So instead, they called in these ragged, despondent-looking men and women: the servi publici. Slaves that are owned by the government in general rather than a particular master; most likely, impoverished Soporati that had to sell themselves into servitude to pay their debts. They are the ones Felix has always felt the most sorry for; slavery as such does not sit right with him, not after he made friends with a circle of forward-thinking youths at the University of Orlais - but at least his parents' household servi have always been treated as part of the family. These desperate, wretched people, on the other hand, see nothing but disdain, forced to live in squalor, packed into tiny pens like cattle, and having to do the hardest, dirtiest work that some of the favoured slaves from wealthy noble houses would not touch with a ten-foot pole.

Absorbed by these worrying thoughts, Felix mechanically places one foot in front of the other in a series of slow, waddling steps, until he comes close enough to the workers to see their emaciated bodies and grimy, mask-like faces, with no trace of any feeling in their eyes, other than all-consuming weariness. One of them, an unshaven middle-aged man with dark-brown hair, brushes against Felix as he hurries past him, leaving a smeared mark on the linen robe Felix has been sleeping in. This attracts the attention of the overseer, who has so far been preoccupied with peeking into his hip flask to see if there was anything left inside. As the servus stumbles away from Felix, muttering a frightened apology, the overseer starts and looks them both over with his bleary, bloodshot eyes. The robe must have made him mistake Felix for one of the resident mages, for he rolls back his sleeves and shoots a blast of lightning at the hapless slave, barking hoarsely,

'Hey you dog! Watch where you are going! Wanna get us all in trouble? You can't throw a brick in here without hitting a magister!'

Stung by the sizzling, glowing whip, the servus publicus drops heavily to his hands and knees and whispers, panting,

'I am sorry. So sorry. This won't happen again'.

'You'd better make good on that promise!' the overseer snarls, readying another blast of lightning (for good measure). Felix hastens to stop him, staggering forward and trying to grab him by the wrist.

'Please! That is quite a cruel use of magic!'

'I am fully auth... authorized to use my magic,' the overseer replies, puffing out his chest. 'I was born to a family of stone masons - but the magisters, they noticed I had a gift! And they gave me an important job! Watching over these use... usls.. useless...'

Hearing the man slur his words makes Felix cringe.

'You are in no fit state to watch over anyone right now,' he says.

The overseer huffs heavily, his forehead beginning to glisten with perspiration.

'You... You won't tell anyone, will you?' he grovels, with a small nervous laugh. 'They... They won't understand that you can't handle these lousy beggars without a good drink. Please don't tell anyone... Dominus?'

The last word, which the overseer speaks through a strained, oily sort of smile, is obviously meant to ingratiate him to Felix; instead, all it does is make the younger man flex his shoulders in discomfort.

'Very well,' he says, clearing his throat. 'As long as you let this man come with me and get his magic burns treated'.

The overseer nods vigorously, appearing immensely relieved.

'Of course! Anything you say! Just send him right back afterwards! We have work to do!'

 

'I don't think I will be sending you back,' Felix says as soon as he and the servus limp off side by side put of the overseer's earshot.

The poor man's limbs barely have any flesh on them, and the pale scars that peek through his rags are more than enough to deduce that this is not the first time the overseer has used his precious 'gift' to keep him in line. It takes him as much effort to walk as it does Felix, and watching him struggle with his own worn-down body makes the younger man wish he was strong enough to help him get up and support him on the way up the passage.

'Tell me: did you submit yourself to slavers to pay your debts?' he continues. 'I have money - I can help'.

The servus gapes at him, confused and more than a little bit frightened.

'You... You jest, dominus,' he says at last, his voice trembling - perhaps because he is so desperately terrified that his words are not the right ones. 'A magister would never care about some poor Soporati...'

Felix chuckles.

'Oh come now! Your overseer may have been too drunk to tell a sleeping gown from a magister's robe - but you are smarter than that, surely! I am not a magister; my father is, but that's not really relevant here. Me, I am not even a mage'.

The servus continues to gape, as his mind almost audibly processes this obvious contradiction. A magister's son not being a mage - how is that possible?

Seeing that his companion wants to ask him a question, but is too afraid to do so, Felix helpfully explains,

'When I was a child, it soon became obvious that I was different. Not the kind of son you'd expect a magister to have. A lot of people... did not accept me, even some from my own family. But my father, he did not care about what I was supposed to be. He tried his best to...'

'To understand,' the servus finishes the sentence for him, with his voice suddenly becoming more reassured and his face lighting up. 'Understanding is hard sometimes - because you think you know better; you think that what you want is also what your child wants - but you have to do it. Sometimes, you just have to shut up and listen to your child instead of yourself'.

He blinks rapidly, realizing that he has just conversed with a man from a higher social circle as an equal, and bends his poor overworked back in a deep bow.

'My apologies - I didn't...'

'No, no, no - please don't apologize!' Felix reassures him. 'Many would not deign to see you as such - but you are a human being, with your own story to tell. Do go on - I want to help you, and the more you share, the better... So, you have a family then? Of course you do: they are the ones you are trying to feed, stuck here, in this miserable state...'

The servus nods.

'I have a wife and...' he pauses for a moment, and then adds, loudly and firmly, 'And a son'.

'Good!' Felix smiles. 'So when we see to it that you buy your freedom, you will be able to return to them!'

'You are too kind, dominus,' the servus says. 'But I doubt that my wife will want to see my face again. After all, I failed at my trade and almost turned us all into paupers'.

'What was your trade?' Felix asks.

'I was a tailor. Made cheap shirts and aprons and other... items like that... But I could not compete with slave labour'.

Felix frowns, tapping his chin thoughtfully (another sign of a good day: his hands are not as cold and numb as usual, and he manages to force his fingers into making various gestures).

'I say... Do you enjoy your trade? Would you have... moved on to the next level, so to speak, if given a chance? Would you have made a shot at sewing more complex garments that would bring you more coin?'

The servus sighs.

'That would have been a dream come true, dominus - if you permit the expression. But I don't have the skill for that; and some of the fabrics those fancy tailors work with are worth more than my entire house! I wouldn't even dare touch them, let alone make something of them!'

'Oh, but you see,' Felix responds, beaming, 'I have this acquaintance, a tailor in Val Royeaux - he is passionate about his craft, and sharing with others. He was constantly on the lookout for new apprentices when I was in touch with him - and I would wager he still is! How is this plan for you: I make a payment that will free you from your debt obligations, then write a letter to this man and convince him to teach you! So when you return to your wife and son, you will be a famous master tailor, not just a modest artisan who sews shirts and aprons!'

'Why... Why would you do that for me, dominus?' the servus asks breathlessly, scarcely able to believe what he just heard.

'I just like helping people,' Felix replies brightly. 'And also, when I was still young, my father let me see how wrong it is to keep people like you, the Soporati, trapped in poverty, while the noble houses prosper. The key to a better life is education, he would always tell me - so I am just doing what he would have wanted me to do. Giving you a chance to educate yourself'.

'You have a wonderful father, dominus,' the servus says, inclining his head humbly.

'Your son does as well,' Felix tells him, with an open, friendly smile. 'Oh, and please stop calling me dominus. My name is Felix Alexius - and yours is...?'

'Rufus,' the man says, bowing again. 'Rufus Aclassi'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really pained me to write that letter from Krem's mother - but sadly, I do believe that it would be in-character for her to (continuously and purposefully) misgender him. Please bear in mind that her beliefs do not reflect my own.

Better life indeed.  
  
Rufus inhales deeply and, slouching his shoulders, drums his fist into the letter that lies on his work station. A stupid little snatch of paper, crisscrossed with scratch-like scrawls, like markings left by a chicken searching for worms in the ground. Neither he nor his wife have ever been particularly versed in letters; she must have dictated this to a neighbour or someone that fancies themself a scribe - and he, in turn, had to trace every squiggly character with his finger, moving his lips to shape the words. Who would have thought that something as simple as these splatters of ink could leave him feeling so... empty.  
  
He was so happy when Messere Le Blanc took Master Felix's recommendation seriously and agreed to take him in. So relieved to finally be rid of that dark, dreary life as a state-owned slave. So proud of himself when he started making his first progress, and the pompous Orlesian tailor nodded approvingly and remarked, 'You have potentiál, Tevinter. You might prove worzee of workeen with those fabreecs, after all'.   
  
And to top it all, he was so very, very full of himself...   
  
He could hardly wait to send word to his wife back home, to tell her how well he was doing, to reassure her that some time very, very soon, he would be coming back with enough coin to make sure that his family never risked slipping down into the more of slavery ever again. And when his letter (written in the common tongue and graciously proof-read by Messere Le Blanc) was sent off on its way, Rufus spent days on end little short of dancing about the tailor shop, eager to receive his wife's reply. And then... Then he got his. This stupid, stupid little paper that left a bigger hole in his heart than the deadliest blade in the world.  
  
 _I don't see any coin attached to this, so I am not going to believe a word you say. You have always been a damned failure, with nothing coming out of your stupid mouth but nonsense. There is no Orlesian master teaching you; who would have agreed to that? You are a lousy tailor - even worse than a slave! No man in his right mind would bother with you for a single second!_  
  
 _Oh, and while I am at it, might as well use up all this paper and tell you. Do you know what the girl did? She up and joined the army, pretending to be a boy! It was good for a time, and she sent me money (unlike some people), but then the coin stopped coming. At first I thought that the spiteful brat was having one of her hissy fits again because I kept calling her 'my daughter'; but I checked up in the military office just in case, and you know what they told me? She was to be put on trial for 'impeer-sonn-eating' a man - but she ran! She became a deserter! They tracked her to a small town near the border, and then, nothing. She could be dead, for all I know. And it's all your bloody fault._  
  
 _Yes, it is! Don't try to deny it! You put up with her stupid games ever since she was little! That thing you did with your shaving mirror, and all your crazy talk about 'understanding' her - when you should have whipped her back to her senses and ordered her to marry that nice merchant's son, like any normal father would! Maybe if you were harder on her, she would not be as sick in the head as she ended up! She would still be alive, and making sure you and I live in comfort!_  
  
 _You ruined my life, and you ruined my daughter. You can rot in the Void for all I care. Don't talk to me again._  
  
There are only so many times Rufus can re-read the letter; eventually, he snatches it from the table and crumples it into a tiny, tight ball, which he continues to knead in his fist, until the paper turns in to a flabby little rag. The repetitive, monotonous motion of his fingers dulls the ache in his chest a little - but does not make it disappear completely. The pain still eats at his heart, hollowing him out from the inside and making him feel stiff and cold, like one of those marble statues in the alleyway leading up to the market.  
  
When his wife was pregnant, the visiting midwife asked Rufus if he had ever thought which child he wanted more, a boy or a girl. But he just smiled and replied that it did not matter - that all he wanted was a little one that he could love. And he did love him - his son. It was hard to fathom, at first, hard to shake off the confining, traditional notion of what men and women were supposed to look like - but Rufus watched, and listened, and did his best to understand.  
  
He tried to show his boy that he understood, too, in his own, fumbling way: mostly through little gestures, like letting the little one look into his hand mirror so he could pretend to shave together with his old man; or addressing him as 'lad' and 'son' (which never failed to bring a smile to his face); or fixing him up with some comfy shirts and trousers instead of those dresses his mother forced him to wear...  
  
But now Rufus wonders if that was enough. If he could have done more - if he could have found the right words to encourage the boy; if he could have stood up more firmly against his wife when she drove the poor child to desperation with her endless lectures about how ungrateful he was and how he disgraced his family by living in a dream world and insisting it was real.  
  
But... But it doesn't really matter, does it? His child, his precious little one, whom he cherished so much, whom he sold himself into slavery for, whom he hoped to surprised with his newfound calling as a fancy high street tailor - he is gone now. All of this has been for nothing.  
  
'Ello zere, Tevinter!' Messere Le Blanc calls out to him from the other end of the shop. 'We ave a costumeer that requires sometheen from your... particulár background! Come quick now!'  
  
Rufus closes his eyes and, with a resigned sigh, shuffles across the room to greet the new client. With the most precious thing in his life gone, he might as well trudge through this day, and the next, and the next, focusing on nothing except his work. This apprenticeship of his is turning out to be yet another form of slavery.  
  
***  
  
This was Vivienne's idea - and a pretty brilliant one, too (but, of course, she knows it). They had not yet found a use for the money donated to the Inquisition by Sebastian, the Prince of Starkhaven, when they received another message from him, this time announcing that he was marching on Kirkwall - for some really odd reason that Lavellan still does not quite understand. Along the lines of... Punishing all the townspeople for harbouring the apostate that blew up the Chantry? Or something?   
  
Whatever it was, it left everyone in Lavellan's inner circle with reactions that varied from being absolutely flabbergasted to kicking the furniture and cursing (that would be Varric). In the end, the Inquisitor decided to help the good dwarf's friend, the guard captain of Kirkwall, protect innocent bystanders from the vengeful prince's wrath - and Vivienne, evidently frustrated to see yet another damaging echo of the Mage-Templar war, suggested exacting a 'refined revenge' of their own. That is, spending all of Sebastian's money (which he wanted them to donate to the worthy cause of the Chantry) on nothing but exquisite clothing for the members of the Inquisition - with the upcoming masquerade at Empress Celene's court in mind. And making sure the prince heard about it.  
  
Varric approved of the idea wholeheartedly ('You know, Iron Lady,' he said, 'If that won't ruffle the Choir Boy's feathers, I don't know what will!'). And so did Lavellan. So now, half of the Inquisition's leadership is marching down the streets of Val Royeaux, ready to stock up on frilly dresses and lace collars and many-tiered, cake-like hats. Those that refused to attend (like Cassandra, who responded to the plan with very eloquent disgusted noises, or Solas, who would rather meditate in the Fade) still had their measurements taken, or at least calculated approximately, because Lavellan is determined to see everyone dressed up all pretty. Absolutely everyone. Including her foe-turned-friend, her favourite ex-magister, the subject of countless doodles in her journal that caught the attention of Clemence the Tranquil. Yes - including Alexius.  
  
It has already been some time since Felix succumbed to his fatal illness, and since the last, parting conversation between father and son, Lavellan's visits to the mages' quarters greatly increased in frequency. She would often find Alexius sitting in a remote corner, with his face blank and pallid and his mouth twisted in a spasm of pain - and every time, she would approach him, and sit by his side, not saying anything at first, just letting him register her presence. Eventually, he would turn towards her, faintly mirroring her reassuring smile, and ask her how the Inquisition was faring today. And she would readily tell him an amusing story about how Sera lured Blackwall into playing truth or dare, and the good Warden (who always chose dares) ended up carrying a giant cheese wheel instead of a shield to battle; or about how Solas, once again, stunned them all with his deep knowledge of forgotten lore by leading the party out into the light of day when they almost got lost in a labyrinthine elven ruin; or about how they made camp in a desert oasis and Bull spent half an hour trying to 'bathe erotically' in the spring because he was convinced Dorian was watching him; or about how lovely it was to see Cassandra slowly beginning to trust Cole, as they fought side by side to save a caravan of refugees from bandits, and the spirit boy announced gleefully that they were 'helping the hurt'.  
  
Distant and just mildly interested at first, Alexius would inevitably become engaged by the elf's excited, lively narrative (she would try to do the voices and everything!) - and then he would suddenly remember that some landmark Lavellan had mentioned in passing had certain significance in Tevinter legend - which, of course, she absolutely had to hear! Gradually, they would switch to more general topics, like the ludicrously negative portrayal of Tevinter in other lands and vice versa; but, taking care not to veer off too much into politics (a touchy subject, she has always found, and guaranteed to make humans lose their temper), Lavellan would finish it all off with a joke... And they would share a brief, soft, warm laugh, which would leave Alexius slightly less distraught than she found him. Sometimes, he would even confess to her that their little talk had made his day better - and there was nothing she enjoyed hearing more.  
  
Now, during this little shopping trip, she intends to make her friend's day better in a whole new way: by finding a gift for him.   
  
One of Lavellan's earliest memories is picking up an autumn leaf off the ground and handing it to another da'len, with the words, 'Fow you'. The grown-ups laughed, of course, and Mamae slapped her on her tiny bottom for being so stupid. She can clearly see why: a leaf makes a really lousy gift, and besides, it wasn't hers to begin with. But what other earthly possessions could she have shared, living in the middle of a wild forest? Now that she has become Inquisitor, however, things are quite different. She has a whole fortress to her name, and hoards lots and lots and lots of shinies that she has come across on her travels - just so she can give all of her stash of goodies away later. Warden Blackwall in need of new tools to do his woodworking? Why, she was just recently given some by a carpenter from the outskirts of Redcliffe, because she had closed a Rift that opened right in the middle of his homestead and he had nothing else to share in a way of thanks! Vivienne looking to replenish her collection of tomes on advanced magic? That's great, because she looted a really fantastic-looking book from a chest in a ruined tower! Sera needs to make a cache to leave for her 'friends' at a secret dead drop location? Well, she discovered a whole bunch of silver chalices and candlesticks in a bandit den! Solas wants to be more comfy while journeying in the Fade? That can be easily arranged, with all those extra pillows that are just lying around in the Inquisitor's quarters! Cullen has been having headaches again? Never fear, Commander: the Inquisitor is ready to literally drown him in the healing potions that she has mixed together while helping out Apothecary Adan! Josephine desperately wanting that doll she saw in a shop window at the market square of Val Royeaux, while she was waiting for a message from that Comte fellow - but too shy to buy it (because it is most shameful for the Inquisition's Ambassador to still be playing with dolls)? Well, the Inquisitor herself certainly does not find it shameful: she just went ahead and bought it with her dungeon-delving gains, and is ready to treat her favourite Antivan to a pleasant surprise!  
  
The list goes on ad aeternam (that is a Tevinter expression Lavellan sort of picked up from Alexius). And today, as they are marching to squander the Choir Boy's money, it will be completed with yet another item. The most lavish, the most magnificent Tevinter-style robe that she can buy with her share of Sebastian's coin. Black in colour, to honour the grief for Felix - but at the same time, with all those fancy adornments that she had Dorian sketch for her (he obliged with the utmost enjoyment, outlining the complex design of the sleeves and hood in bold strokes of charcoal).   
  
And it seems that she is in luck, too - the very first tailor she visited, upon arriving in the city, turned out to have a Tevinter apprentice! He will certainly be able to get her just the thing she needs! Oh, this is going to be so exciting!


	3. Chapter 3

Summoned by the owner of the tailor shop, the apprentice emerges slowly from the murk of the back room, a polite, tired smile on his weather-worn face. Lavellan beams at him at first - but then, the cheerful glow in her eyes fades away, as she studies the man's features more closely.  
  
By the Creators - she knows that look! That slight twitch in the corner of the mouth; that pained jerking of a vein in the throat; that vacant gaze, which sees far past the immediate surroundings, travelling to a dark, dark place... She saw it all, on that day in Redcliffe, when King Alistair arrived to make sure the rebel mages were off his land.  
  
When the main culprit behind the chaos in this corner of the realm was brought to heel, chained and prodded in the back with the guardsmen's halberds, His Majesty looked at him long and hard, and finally declared,  
  
'You know, you have made one fine mess here - but the Inquisition helped stop it from blowing over into a real disaster. So I think it is only fair to let them decide your fate'.  
  
Then, he turned to Lavellan, who was still shaken from her recent whirlwind journey through time, and was clinging on instinctively to Cassandra (the latter being very much alive, unlike her future self, and thoroughly confused).  
  
'He is all yours, Herald of Andraste. I trust you to find a fitting punishment for this... sneaky mage thief'.  
  
The prisoner responded to that with a hollow, cracking laugh, with a faint tinge of the insanity that, a year from now, would have consumed him.  
  
 _'I could not save my son. Do you think my fate matters to me?'_  
  
Lavellan should probably have been outraged - any proper leader of a lofty cause would have been overcome by righteous wrath in her place, especially when surrounded by allies that the man before her would have left to rot in prison, to be slowly devoured from within by red lyrium. But apparently, she is far from being a proper leader: all she could feel at that moment was overwhelming, heartrending pity towards her vanquished adversary. It left a gripping sort of sensation somewhere in her stomach, as though blood was being slowly squeezed out of her innards. And the same feeling, completely without warning, now overcomes her when her eyes meet the apprentice tailor's.  
  
The master tailor, too, senses that something is wrong with his protégé.  
  
'What is ze problém, Rufus?' he demands, tapping his elegant high-heeled shoe against the tiled stone floor, with the fluffy pom-pom on its tip dangling from side to side, as though to highlight his impatience.  
  
'Ze mademoiselle may be an elf, but she is a very important client! Representeen ze Inquisition! So abandon your Tevinter ways and serve her, if you please! Ze mademoiselle wants a robe in your omeland's style - she even brought sketches! Please, mademoiselle - show him!'  
  
Lavellan has, indeed, come inside the shop with Dorian's designs in hand - but at the moment, she in no particular hurry to lay them out and explain what she wants. Instead, she says softly to the Tevinter,  
  
'I am so, so sorry about your loss'.  
  
'How - how did you know?' the man asks, his jaw almost detaching itself from his face in astonishment.  
  
She sighs.  
  
'A dear friend of mine had to live through a terrible family tragedy recently. I have tried my best to comfort him - but that look in his eyes, the one you have now, is really hard to make fade away'.  
  
Slowly, as if waking up from a dream, the apprentice lifts his hand, which he has been clenching into a fist all this time, and straightens his stiff, ink-stained fingers, revealing a small, lumpy paper ball resting in the middle of his palm.  
  
'I have just received a letter from my wife,' he says quietly. 'She says our son is most likely dead'.  
  
The master tailor lets out a loud 'Hmph!'.  
  
'Ze mademoiselle does to wish to ear about zat!' he snaps. 'She came for a garment, not a sob story!'  
  
'I can easily have both, can't I?' Lavellan objects. 'Or just the sob story, if this poor man is in no state to work'.  
  
'No, no, I... I am all right,' the Tevinter reassures her absently. 'I can... distract myself...'  
  
The Orlesian tailor stomps his foot again.  
  
'Distract?! Distract yourself?! L' houte couture is not a distractión, my good man: it is a calling! A passion! A...'  
  
'Perhaps your apprentice and I should move into a different room, messere,' Lavellan cuts in, trying to sound as polite as possible (of all the humans she has met, Orlesians have proven to be among the most challenging to deal with; if Vivienne is right and people get stabbed here for not using the right fork at dinner - she dreads that ball in Halamshiral).  
  
'In the meanwhile, you can wait for my friends. We are doing quite a lot of shopping today, and I am sure you will be receiving new clients from the Inquisition in no time'.  
  
The Orlesian grouses something vague, and his apprentice thrusts the paper ball somewhere into one of his numerous pockets and leads Lavellan into an adjoining chamber, filled to the roof with mannequins and rolls of glittering fabric.  
  
'Which colour would you like for that robe?' he asks.  
  
'Black, if you don't mind,' the elf replies, pointing at the fitting sample of glossy raven silk with one hand, and passing the sketches to the human with the other. 'It's for that friend I mentioned. I... I wanted to cheer him up with a present, but something in my favourite bright, happy colours would be kind of out of place, as he still mourns his son'.  
  
The apprentice tailor starts.  
  
'He... He lost a son, too? Tell him I feel for him when you see him next'.  
  
Lavellan nods gravely.  
  
'I will. Say... Rufus, was it? Do you wanna... Talk about your son? I - I know I am a complete stranger, but sometimes, it really helps to get things off your chest'.  
  
Rufus reaches for the scissors tucked under his belt, as well as for the long piece of chalk peeking out of his pocket, and takes to marking the fabric, glancing at Dorian's notes now and again.  
  
'I know it helps,' he remarks, sounding a little bitter. 'My son had so much to get off his chest... I could feel it - but I never helped him... uncork all that. I never looked him in the eye and said, "Don't hate yourself for being you. Don't listen to people who think you are a freak of nature. You are a wonderful young man and you do your father proud".  
  
'Hey - Inquisitor! Are you in there?' a loud voice calls out from the street. 'You should really come see this! Madame Vivienne fixed the chief up with that purple outfit she was talking about - he looks like a bloody pigeon on a stroll, chest puffed out and everything!'  
  
With an abrupt clanking noise, the scissors fall to the floor. The apprentice opens and shuts his mouth several times, like a fish dragged out onto the sea shore by the tide. Just at this moment, a head pokes through the back room's doorway. A rather handsome, brown-haired male head, crowned by a large, broad-rimmed hat adorned with wispy, foam-like feathers.  
  
'Yeah, I know - awful isn't it? The chief just sort of shoved the thing on me when I started laughing at his get-up!'  
  
The head's owner wants to say more, but falls silent, looking as stunned Rufus, who is gaping at newcomer as if he has just seen a ghost, with the discarded tailor's scissors still lying at his feet. The air in the room seems to grow heavier, congealed with unspoken words - until the fancy feathered hat is sent flying to the floor, just like the scissors, and the brown-haired youth rushes towards the petrified tailor's apprentice and, his mercenary armour clamouring, lifts him off the floor in one of the tightest hugs Lavellan has ever seen (and she is an expert in these matters).  
  
'Damn it, dad!' the young man exclaims in the common tongue, laughing and glancing excitedly from Rufus to Lavellan, who has taken to bouncing excitedly in one spot, realizing what a marvelous, marvelous reunion is taking place before her eyes.   
  
'This is my dad, Inquisitor! Didn't think I'd be seeing his stupid old face any time soon... Maker's bleeding beard, Dad - how did you get all the way to Orlais? Went on the lam like me?'  
  
'What?' Rufus asks, sounding a little dazed. 'Oh... Oh, I found a friend that helped buy back my freedom. But you - I was just sobbing like a fool over your death!'  
  
'Well, if you must know, I was this close to dying,' the mercenary grins, interrupting the embrace and holding his index finger and thumb before his face, their tips barely touching. 'An Imperial tribune and his men got me cornered in this little tavern, just as I was about to cross the border - but then, one big horned idiot charged in and saved my skin. And when the dust settled, I had a new job! Our merc band serves the Inquisition now, punching bad guys and killing demons'.  
  
'Are they... Are they treating you well?' Rufus asks, as soon as he is able to put a word in.  
  
'Better than well! We are one happy crazy bunch, aren't we, Inquisitor?'  
  
Lavellan nods, with a gleeful spark dancing in her eyes.  
  
'The Bull's Chargers are an important part of our team, and from what I've seen, Krem really, truly belongs among them'.  
  
'Krem...' Rufus echoes thoughtfully, looking over his son from head to foot with an affectionate smile. 'That's - that's your name, son?'  
  
'Yup. It's Cremisius actually - but my friends call me Krem'.  
  
'Am... Am I...' Rufus begins to ask hesitantly.  
  
Krem claps his hand on his father's shoulder.  
  
'Don't be stupid - of course you are my friend! My first friend ever!'  
  
His face grows sombre for a moment.  
  
'I... I am sorry I didn't try to look for you. To help you get out of that mess. I am still a wanted criminal back in Tevinter, most likely - and besides, the only person I could have reached out to was Mother, and I... I just... I just can't...'  
  
'It's all right, my boy,' Rufus whispers softly, drawing Krem back into an embrace. 'It's all right. We did catch up with each other in the end; and I am so happy you found a home for yourself. And so, so proud...'  
  
***  
  
 _No-one can beat the Chargers_  
 _Cuz we'll hit you where it hurts!_  
 _Unless you know a tavern_  
 _With loose cards and looser skirts!_  
  
The song, loud and rather gratingly out of tune (and at the same time, defiantly boisterous), soars over the courtyard, startling Leliana's omnipresent messenger ravens and making them flap their wings in alarm and caw shrilly. All of these noises hardly set the right mood for translating an ancient Tevinter inscription with instructions on weapon enchantments (to be passed on to Arcanist Dagna upon completion). With a small, frustrated groan, Alexius comes up to the window and peers outside, trying to discern the source of the commotion.  
  
Before long, he is able to spot a small procession of revellers marching out of the tavern door. It is made out of the most colourful assortment of characters, elves and dwarves and humans, almost each of them bearing a joyful grin from ear to ear. The motley band is lead by that enormous Qunari brute Alexius has heard about from Lavellan and Dorian (with quite a few colourful epithets on the latter's part). And perched on the shoulders of the ox-like giant, grabbing his horns for support with one hand and brandishing a mug in the other, is a man who seems... rather familiar. Of course, he cannot be absolutely certain, given the distance and the fact that his eyesight is definitely not as sharp as it used to be (spending years working on magical research in dimly lit libraries rather does that to you)... But damn it - he is unable to shake off the nagging feeling that he has seen that fellow (mercenary, most likely) before... He just can't put his finger on it.  
  
'It's all right if you forgot,' a lowered voice speaks into his ear, like on that day in Haven when he almost suffocated under the avalanche.   
  
'You were not really there when you met. They came in and woke you up, he and Felix, and your eyes looked past his face, shimmering, transparent, like a reflection in a pond. Your thoughts slipped past him, too, past him and through him, as if he was a ghost. There was simply not enough room for him in your mind - it was all taken up by searching and hurting and hoping despite the hurt. You didn't even properly hear what they asked you to do - but you agreed. Anything for Felix; anything to make him happy'.  
  
Alexius shudders slightly and turns around, already knowing who he will see.  
  
'Cole,' he says simply. 'We meet again. And your arm is elbow-deep in other people's thoughts as usual'.  
  
The pale boy looks at him from under his oversized pancake if a hat.  
  
'You remember now, don't you?' he asks, sounding anxious for some reason. 'Maybe I shouldn't have reminded you... Sometimes I want to help, but I say things that make people hurt even more. It is hard, sorting through things in a world where there is so much grey'.  
  
'I... Now that you've mentioned it, I do seem to be match a memory to the face...' Alexius mutters. 'It's that servus publicus, the one from the Minrathous Circle Tower; Felix got into his head that the man needed to be rescued from slavery, and I was... incapable of objecting to his plan. I think he mentioned something about the servus having a son of his own, a son that he wanted to help...'  
  
As if to confirm his recollections, the man on the Qunari's shoulders cries out in all-consuming, inebriating joy (and inebriated, too, judging by the sound of his voice),  
  
'There were days when I doubted the Maker existed - but now I believe, because I got my son back! Back from the dead!'.  
  
Alexius closes his eyes, colour slowly ebbing away from his face. In the meanwhile, the man down in the courtyard continues singing praise to the Maker and the Inquisition, bellowing at the top of his lungs.  
  
'Do you all hear me? Do you all know? I, Rufus Aclassi, am the happiest man in Thedas! I am by my son's side, and I am so proud of the man he's grown into!'.  
  
Cole sways from side to side, chanting sorrowfully under his breath,  
  
'I knew you would end up hurting... You will despise yourself for this later; you will say that it is wrong - but you can't really help it. You can't help wanting him to stop, stop, stop - stop singing, laughing, soaring, basking in boundless bliss. You can't help hating his happiness - unabashed, unending, unfair...'  
  
'I am going to direct my hate at you if you don't refrain from reading my thoughts,' Alexius says, through strained breaths.  
  
Cole slides closer to him, his fingers probing the air inches away from his shoulder.  
  
'I still want to help. There is a corner in his heart that is filled with special warmth: my boy, my brave warrior, all I ever wanted... But the same corner in your heart is now cold and empty. And it can never be filled like his heart is filled. You cannot be happy the way he is - but that's okay. That does not mean there is no warmth for you at all, no glow, no glee. You were in a dark, dreadful, draining prison inside your own mind - but then, you found a candle. While this man, he's got a lantern. A candle is different from a lantern, but it still gives off light. You lost what Rufus found, but you also found something that will help you feel less lost'.  
  
Alexius glances at the spirit boy, frowning.  
  
'I... I think I understand your metaphor, Cole. And I want it to be true. But sometimes... Sometimes it just seems that the darkness will never go away'.  
  
'It might take time to leave,' Cole agrees. 'Darkness is very stubborn. But you have a really bright candle'.  
  
When Alexius opens his mouth to give the boy a reply, he is gone, leaving behind a hazy, dream-like memory of his presence and a strong, almost overwhelming need to seek out a certain trusty friend.  
  
He does not have to walk far to find her (quite a relief, because he can feel the eyes of Lady Nightingale's many agents following him everywhere). She is in the library, sitting on the edge of the research table while the Tranquil woman in charge of compiling the Inquisition's bestiary sorts through demon claws and phoenix feathers and eyes of newt and other bizarre findings from the Inquisitor's many travels. Seeing Alexius approach, the elf leaps to the floor and says, rather sheepishly,  
  
'Uh, hi, Gereon... I was planning to give you a little something  - you know, to cheer you up. A new robe, to be precise; but the Inquisition's new tailor might take some time to finish it. He has some catching up to do with...'  
  
'With his son,' Alexius concludes for her, sparing her from the anguish of pondering whether or not the mention of this noisy little reunion will hurt him. 'I know. And...'  
  
As it often happens when he is talking to Lavellan, he cannot fight back a smile. The Venatori would have probably hissed and spat in disgust: he was supposed to kill this impossibly gregarious little elf, and instead he finds himself on the receiving end of her famous boundless generosity... and quite moved by it.  
  
'The gesture is appreciated, but you needn't worry about my wardrobe. The days when I was a walking testimony to Tevinter's fashion are now past me'.  
  
'They don't have to be, though!' Lavellan responds cheerfully. 'Also, Vivienne seems to be getting bored, with Dorian as her only opponent in fashion battles'.  
  
Her remark makes Alexius smile again. The smile does not fully dispel the cold that crept into his heart when he saw another man parading around with a treasure that he himself fought so hard to keep, and yet still lost; but still, it helps subdue the pain. The spirit boy was right - as he often is, in his own cryptically incoherent way. There is a candle in the darkness - and its bright light is a better gift than the most elegant robes in Thedas.


End file.
